


The Blue Satin Gown

by samhainsolstice



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Gen, Lost Love, Marriage, Master & Servant, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 15:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20194810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samhainsolstice/pseuds/samhainsolstice
Summary: An adapted mix of some of my favourite parts of Winston Grahams first book in the Poldark saga, Ross Poldark and the bbc series written by Debbie Horsefield along my own take on both.  I have stuck to DH charactisation as tv series is what first drew me to the books.My first fanfic, hopefully not my last....Enjoy





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on book one (ross poldark) by Winston Graham, and Series 1 adapted for tv by Debbie Horsefield.
> 
> The shocking arrival of Ross Poldark back from the dead, sends shockwaves through the lives of all he loved in cornwall.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth Chynoweths engagement is disrupted by the arrival of a lost love

Elizabeth:

“Elizabeth,” said Mrs Chynoweth “fetch me my wrap from upstairs will you? I am a little chilly.”

“Yes Mother,” answering automatically; praying her knees did not knock together as rose from the dinner table. Holding her head high, Elizabeth glided silently across the floor aware of every set of eyes burning into her ram rod straight back as she groped for the oak banister. Ross’s eyes like smouldering embers burning, following her every step as she climbed the stairs. The steady murmur of conversation reached upstairs, not clear enough for to hear, but having sat at the dining table of Trenwith for many weeks now Elizabeth could guess the course of conversation, Charles Poldark seated at the top of the table speaking to her father and Dr Choake of the growing discontent in the country, taxes, wages, politics and war. 

Where that was dammed wrap her mother needed so suddenly. Perhaps if she hid upstairs for the rest of the night she would not be missed. Perhaps she could disappear down the servant’s stairs and escape back to the safety of Cusgarne. Perhaps Ross would come and find her. He seemed eager to be alone with her, his eyes feasting upon her face as he whispered how opportune she was here tonight of all nights. Before Verity descended upon him; a plate piled ushering him into a seat between Aunt Agatha and your father. Finding the wrap and her courage; Elizabeth descended the stairs to hear Ross exclaim..

“To be married, well and to whom-.”

As her feet touched the last step of the stairs, Mrs Chenynowth proudly replied.

‘To my daughter, to Elizabeth,’

There was silence. Verity was there at her side whispering, did she need a drink. No, no…please no. Walking very carefully you came over to your mother.

“Your wrap; mama.”

“We are very happy,’ your mother continued ‘that our ancient families are to be united. Very happy and very proud; I am sure Ross…’ she prattled on heedless of the sudden change of temperature in the room. Ross had put down his knife, now picked it up once more continuing with his meal. The only outward sign of his distress; the vein in his neck began to throb. Her father now joined the conversation, heartily attempting to turn the topic to port. She could have wept in thanks. Ross turned his attention to Dr Choake. Francis faced flushed after a small hesitation came quickly round the table and grasped Elizabeth’s trembling hand. 

The colour of the eyes under the same heavy lids was the only mark of cousinship. In their school days they had been christened “the fair Poldark and the dark Poldark”. They had always been friends, which was surprising, since their fathers had not. As he pressed a glass into her hand, she assessed her groom to be. Compact, slim and neat with the fresh carefree vigour of a youth that had yet to know hardship, Francis was a handsome youth. He had been everything a courteous youth should be, fevered declarations of love, tokens and attention showered upon her that there had been no thought of not accepting his proposal when it came.

And yet…as Ross walked through Trenwith Hall like he had never been away all thought of the heady summer courtship vanished like a morning mist. The carefree easiness of youth had gone, in its place was a man who had known what is was to be in danger , to pit his strength against another man in something other than games or horseplay. It was in the set of his shoulders as he assessed the company of the room, the cold hard stare as he listened to all his uncle had to say, the warmth of his tone as he addressed his elderly aunt Agatha or as he looked up at Verity and smiled. Gone was the easy smile of a carefree youth, in its place stood the hardened bloodied solider?

“I mustn’t stop. I called here only for a few minutes and to rest my horse, which is lame.” Verity instantly protesting, Francis to a lesser degree, his father a half -hearted mumble, Elizabeth’s mother for once silent. Ross did as he was urged, drinking three glasses. With the fourth he got to his feet.

“To Elizabeth,’ he said slowly pinning her with an unrelenting stare ‘and to Francis…May they find happiness together.’ Picking up his hat and refusing the loan of a fresh horse for the last three miles, he waited at the door for Tabb to bring round his mare. Francis opened the door, allowing the wind to blow in a few spots of rain as he went out to see if Tabb had come. Her mother distracted by Verity, Elizabeth seized the opportunity.

As she reached his side, he turned to her and said. “I hope my mistimed resurrection hasn’t cast a cloud over your evening.”

“Ross, what can you think of me.”

“Two years is a long time, isn’t it? Too long perhaps?”

“I’m so happy that you’re back, Ross. I had feared; we had all feared…”

“Elizabeth,’ once more her mother called. ‘ Take care the night air does not catch you.”

“No, Mama…Ross.” Elizabeth had gone very white but for all her delicate breeding he could not stop himself, it had to come out now.

“It isn’t very pretty to have been made a fool of by one’s owns feelings. To take childish promises and build a castle out of them? D’you remember that day in your father’s garden when you slipped away to meet me in the summerhouse?

‘You forget yourself,’ she whispered. ‘It isn’t fair to Francis to speak as you are.’

“No, I don’t. I remember you.”

Alarmed at her own feelings aware Francis could reappear at any moment, the situation had to be saved somehow.

“Ross, ours was a childish attachment. I was very fond of you and still am…but word came that you were dead and I met Francis.”

Darkness had fallen by now, the light from indoors threw a shaft across her face as Francis came running back across the driveway. “Do not forget, we expect you back here soon. Verity will want to see more of you. If my dearest fiancé can spare the time we will ride over tomorrow.”

Ross’s face was not easy to read, it was impossible to tell; in the last half an hour he suffered more than any injury that befell him in in the war. The wind and rain answered Francis and the clatter of hoofs as the mare side stepped down the drive.


	2. Ross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross arrives back at Nampara.

Ross:

At an early age his father had taught him a view of things which took very little for granted, but in his dealings with Elizabeth Chynoweth he had fallen into the sort of trap such an outlook might have helped him to avoid. At sixteen she bloomed with the promise of later beauty, everything a well-bred young lady ought to be; catching the eye of many prospective fathers-in-law. Yet he had won her heart, they had been in love since. Alas barely twenty his own misadventures finally caught up with him; his father’s advice of an army commission seemed the perfect solution while trouble blew over. Donning his splendid scarlet jacket with no thought further than a fresh experience, no doubt in his mind and he had looked for none in her.

Darkness had fallen by now, the wind blew more strongly and the soft rain beat in flurries about his head. He no longer whistled into the wind or talked to his irritable mare. Swinging lights appeared out of the inky darkness, a gentle tug on the reins drew them into the side of the track allowing the mule train to pass close beside him as the rattle and clang of copper ore slung on either side of the animals back. Several men peered up at the figure upon the horse, he thought that none recognised him. Ross moved on, the feeling in him to be home now so strong he could have been physically sick. The mare all her ill temper gone, stumbled and almost fell, awkwardly swinging down Ross began to lead her into the dark. In a moment he would be on his own land. That afternoon he had been filled with pleasure at the prospect but now he could only be glad that his journey was done and he might lie down and rest. There ahead in the soft and sighing darkness was the solid line of Nampara house. Smaller than he remembered, lower and more squat; entirely opposite in every way to the great house he had come from a mere hour ago. Not a light to be seen; it straggled like a row of workmen cottages. The lilac tree, now grown so big as to overshadow the windows behind it, he tethered the mare and thrust open the door.

Only darkness greeted him, pushing the door once more it went creaking back against a heap of refuse and he peered into the low beamed hall. At once there was a scuffling and rustling of the sound of animals disturbed. The fireplace was empty and hens roosted in its place, could tell him nothing of the couple he sought.

The place to look was in the bedroom upstairs at the back of the house where the old servants always slept. A particular sound came to his ears, a creak on the stairs but when he peered out with the candle high he could see nothing. The sound came again; catching its direction Ross strode over to the box bed and slid back the doors. Greeted by the powerful smell of stale sweat and gin; dead drunk and locked in each other’s arms were Jud and Pruide Paynter. Staring at them for some moments Ross welcomed the black rage bubbling within. Walking out of the room and to the stables at the east end of the house, at first he could hardly put his foot to the stair, but he welcomed the pain in his ankle. Finding a wooden pail, this he filled, carried and tipped onto the bed. When he brought the third bucket Jud was groaning and muttering, Ross flung this bucket over his bald head. By the time he returned with the fourth bucket, Jud had climbed out of the bed, shaking the streaming water from his clothing. Jud began to curse and grope for his knife, Ross cuffed him on the side of the head, knocking him stumbling back onto the soaked bed. 

At his next appearance Ross devoted the water to Prudie who was only just stirring. There was more intelligence in the drunken eyes of Jud, though now slumped on the ground. At the sight of him Jud began to curse and sweat and threaten. But after a moment a look of puzzlement crept across his face.

“…Dear Life! ...Is it you, Mister Ross?’ 

‘From the grave,’ said Ross. ‘Up, before I kill you.’ By the collar of his shirt he lifted the man to his feet and thrust him forwards towards the door.


	3. Joan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan Chynoweth arrives at Nampara

Joan Chynoweth:

It was a bright late October day when Mrs Chynoweth as beautiful as a well-bred female eagle descended from the Chynoweth family coach. Lurching and rattling along the narrow rutted lanes; throwing out a fog of grey dust which settled evenly over the staring people who gathered to watch it go by. The appearance of such a vehicle in this barren countryside was an event of importance; where horseback and mule train were the usual means of travel. Jud had already hobbled to the back field where his master worked, grudgingly relaying the news.

For Ross the early part of his return to Nampara was endless. For days on end the driving mists filled the valley until the walls of the house ran with damp and the stream was in yellow spate. He walked miles, sometimes in the rain along the cliffs when the sky was hung with low clouds and the sea drab and sullen as any jilted lover. He would stride on, more seldom talking to himself while the wind blew his hair about his face stinging colour into his cheeks. For all his hard work; he was thinner and paler. Drinking and thinking too much, a gaunt brooding man was a stranger to the woman who was once his prospective mother in law. He had been mending the fence which bounded part of his land, and was dirty and dishevelled, his hands scarred with soil and rust as Jud hobbled into view breathlessly announcing the arrival of a fancy fligged up carriage.

When he greeted Mrs Chynoweth in the parlour the contrast between her over bright riding costume with fine Ghent lace at the cuffs and throat. She wore a three cornered felt hat trimmed with lace which set off the oval of her face and crowned with the still dark sheen of her hair. Her fine looks were marred by a long and acquisitive nose; on first meeting her Ross felt a sense of shock at so much beauty spoiled. Elizabeth was slighter than her mother had ever been; in her face the beauty which her mother missed. She was a little girl with the appeal of a woman; beautiful and fragile a soon to be married woman. Her mother’s presence in his parlour confirming truth behind the vicious gossip of Swale! Elizabeth had postponed her wedding to his cousin Francis.

Conscious of his damp shirt and ruffled hair, he told her what he had been doing. Joan Chynoweth who had not visited Nampara for nearly ten years glanced around the room as if surprised at the comfortable yet shabby nature of the furnishings.

“Indeed. Farming is such an engaging hobby,’ she said raising a glass of cordial to her lips before setting the grease stained glass back on the low table assessing her now stained gloves.

Prudie had done her best serving cordial, sullenly shuffling out of the room not caring for the cleanliness of the glasses. Barely managing to hold her tongue until she could sulk beside the fire once more proclaiming loudly about the fudgy-face baggage in Mister Ross’s front room looking down her snooty nose at hard working folk.

‘More than a hobby with me, ma’am,’ Ross said looking at her. She was ill at ease, any discussion of wealth or lack of it was deemed entirely unseemly in polite society. Mrs Chynoweth was not one to back down from a fight, not when her daughter’s future was at stake. Acutely aware of what he said to his once possible mother in law as she tapped her riding crop against one of her well-shod feet.

“Ross Poldark, A lady is born to be admired. None more so than my Elizabeth… _not pull turnips_.”

Mrs Chynoweth had not raised her voice, indeed to a casual observer they might be prettily discussing the coming and goings in society, upcoming balls and invitations. She might as well have struck him across the face with her riding crop with the ferocity of her reply.

Ah there was the rub of it. He found he had no reply. That was the truth. Elizabeth was born a lady, to be admired, to spend her days in leisure at her spinning wheel. Every whim tended to.

“Elizabeth has been raised to be a Lady, Mr Poldark. Not to bow and scrape in a field ankle deep in mud alongside her husband. Oh she would make a pretty job of it no doubt; but a lifetime of hard-toil is not the life for my daughter. To foist such an expectation on her is ungracious.”

Rising to leave, it was agreeable to have seen him and put her worries to rest.

“It was wrong of Elizabeth to ask you to stay. It was because she wanted your friendship and nothing more. I think you must master your feelings and face them the way you want them to be. Francis and Elizabeth will be married. A childish folly will not stand in her way, I will not allow it.’

They moved to the front door, the man-servant brought her carriage forward. She had the grace of youth and of a born lady, taking to the carriage like gentry only can. He walked with the carriage as it swayed unevenly bouncing the occupant within.

On the way Demelza the new servant passed them. Lumbering with a basket of pilchards from Swale; in the better of her two frocks the sun shining on her tangled copper hair. A child, a girl, thin and angular with a long legged stride: and then she raised her unexpected eyes.

She blinked once, curtsied awkwardly, passed on.

Mrs Chynoweth took out a fine lace handkerchief and flicked a little dust from her habit. “I heard you had adopted a child. That is she?’

“I have adopted no one; I needed a kitchen wench. That is all there is about it.”

“A nice little thing,’ said Mrs Chynoweth following the progress of the wench up the garden path to the kitchen door. “You have made Nampara comfortable again Ross; the touch of a woman’s hand will give it graciousness and gentility. Do you not think?”

Ross turned on his heel and tramped into the house, through to the kitchen calling to Jud to make his way back up to the paddock and be quick about it.


	4. Demelza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demelza gets a nudge in the right direction

Demelza:

Carrying a basket of pilchards from Swale, where the first catch of the season had just been landed; in the better of her two frocks Demelza hesitated in her long legged stride. A carriage the likes of which she not seen as yet in her months at Nampara, two long legged finely bred horses loosened of their reins cropping content at the over grown meadow by the side of the barn while the groom took advantage of a rest in his duties having loosened the stock at his neck and puffing happily on a pipe. 

Callers to the house were frequent enough; since she had come here there was no end to all sorts from the village and beyond to discuss matters with Captain Ross. Although he tolerated these interruptions well, Ross was always keen to get to the business at hand and not see the day wasted; Nampara had been neglected during his time away and there was always another job that required his attention. 

Only yesterday Mrs Teague accompanied by her youngest daughter had ridden over on a sociable call on their way home from Mingoose. To see how the eligible young bachelor was managing for himself. He had suffered the visit well, masking his eagerness to complete repairing the fence although she thought privately the sullen appearance of Prudie was enough to see the Ladies off; declining the polite offer of supper. 

During the months since her coming to Nampara, Demelza was up at dawn and took to wandering the hills and fields at will; Returning when she pleased with a big bunch of wild flowers which found their way into the parlour. 

She had taken to combing her hair and tying it back, where it sometimes stayed so that her features had come into the open. She knew she could not compete with the young ladies who were trotted out like mares for her master’s attention but she was not an ill looking girl. Her skin was clear and now that she was finally rid of crawlers, Prudie and Jud liked to jest that in a few years some young miner or the likes would come courting.

It was not of a young miner she thought of; privately in her secret moments of the dawn she allowed her fantasies to run wild. Demelza had not meant it to happen, indeed such a notion. She was a simple scullery maid who knew her place; and well if she happened to forget, a clout around ear from Prudie was quick to remind her. 

Sudden changes had happened though and the guidance and instruction of the paynters was no longer enough. In turn quite by accident this brought her more into contact with Master Ross. He found a pleasure in helping and if he meant to or not he would laugh with her much more often than he should. The simple pleasure of being praised and not beaten spurred her efforts on so that she flew about the house. At mid-day his meal was on time and by the evening when the labourers came in from the fields supper was on the table.

It was the gift of the scarlet cloak that settled it for Demelza. Ross had not spoken to her about her efforts nor about how pleased he was with her, but when he was next in Truro he bought her one of the scarlet cloaks which were so fashionable. Later in the privacy of her bedroom she tried it on, securing the ties beneath her chin, allowing the heavy warm material to swish around her feet imagining herself as grand a lady as those who would steal Master Ross away.

Grateful to be rid of the lumbering weight and over bearing smell of pilchards, Demelza worked the handle of the pump filling a bucket of water with a mind to her next chore. The calves wanted feeding although it was not her concern, knowing it was better to be occupied than allowing her mind to wander about Ross. He was off again; striding away over the back meadow tools in hand calling impatiently to Jud. Who-ever had come-a-calling in their great carriage must be away. A fine thing it must be,’ she thought smiling to herself spending your day visiting this person and that person without a care in the world for the work that must be done. Slopping out the meal porridge to the six calves who greeted her noisily, pushing at her legs with their soft damp noses; standing there watching them eat quite lost in quiet contentment Demelza jumped startled at the sharp voice that addressed her. Trampling on the bucket sending it rolling into the back of the stall.

She was slender she thought and graceful as she imagined a Lady to be. Her skin ivory, having never known a day’s work. She is a Lady and Ross is a gentleman and I am a scullery maid. Unsure of herself and this grand lady who had appeared at the byre door, she bowed low hastily wiping the spilt meal porridge from the front of her dress as best as she could.

‘Please Ma’am,’ Delemza asked again.

‘You are the scullery maid, are you not? Whom I’ve heard your master speak.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ She is a woman just like me, made of the same substance. She thought. I am earthenware and she is porcelain.

‘Captain Poldark has mentioned you to me, my dear. Why you’re coming to live here with him at Nampara is all anyone can speak of.’

Demelza returned Mrs Chynoweths gaze and glanced with wide eyes in the direction of the far paddock where Ross had returned to work with the Jud. Mortified, Demleza could do nothing to stop her face flaming red as if in admission.

Smiling the older lady thought in triumph. So there _is_ something between them. ‘How old are you child.’

‘I’m seventeen,’ Demleza replied mutinously. ‘I been seventeen for weeks now.’

‘Treats you well, does he? Tapping her riding crop against the heavy skirts of her riding habit as she accessed the young maid from head to toe. ‘Quite the renegade Captain Poldark, is he not? Mixing with the Indians. Upsetting himself about some farm labourer with a bad cough. Rather unbalanced, one supposes. After all, one has to accept the rough with the smooth.’

As Mrs Chynoweth continued to walk around her in ever decreasing circles, Delemza could not help but feel like one of Prudie’s hens rooted to the ground in fear as the sly old fox closed in for the kill. She could only nod as the line of questioning continued. Putting a forefinger under Delemzas chin, as she scrutinized her further.

‘It is a shame men cannot appreciate what is under their noses. They must hanker after far off adventures….raising the riding crop in the air summoning the waiting coach. ‘A new frock, child. Pale blue, with your colouring. I do beieve I once took tea in this very house with Captain Poldarks mother; she wore the most beautiful blue satin gown. You are of similar proportions.’ 

With that she disappeared into her coach, leaving Demleza rooted to the spot staring in her wake. Thinking, what on earth had just happened.


End file.
